


and when her edges soften, her body is my coffin

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Have you no idea that you’re in deep? [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Falling In Love, Female Reader, Implied Sexual Content, Major Spoilers, Micah feels guilt, Micah's POV, Non-Explicit Sex, References to Sex, Spoilers, The Reader Is Arthur's Sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: He’d done it.You’re curled up, sweet and soft, against his chest. Dead to the world, trusting. Your gun belt is thrown off in the corner, you’re completely unarmed.If he wanted to, he could put a knife in your back. But you’re trusting him not to.Micah reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. Your noise wrinkles, and you bury your face into his bare chest with a muffled grumble.Something clumps in his throat.
Relationships: Micah Bell/Reader
Series: Have you no idea that you’re in deep? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2119320
Kudos: 46





	and when her edges soften, her body is my coffin

###  _and when her edges soften, her body is my coffin_  
~Love Me Dead, Ludo

He’d done it.

You’re curled up, sweet and soft, against his chest. Dead to the world, trusting. Your gun belt is thrown off in the corner, you’re completely unarmed.

If he wanted to, he could put a knife in your back. But you’re trusting him not to.

And you don’t trust anyone.

  
  


Micah reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. Your noise wrinkles, and you bury your face into his bare chest with a muffled grumble.

Something clumps in his throat.

  
  


This isn’t the first time you’ve fallen into bed together. The two of you have been a thing for quite a while, tangled before ever _becoming_ a thing. 

But it had all been heated things, rough and needy. Teeth knocking together and nails clawing, him throwing you up against the nearest surface, barely preparing you and only paying the barest bit of attention to your needs. Only rarely dropping to his knees to shove his mouth between your legs, walking around proudly with bruises on his jaw the next day.

You two are outlaws. Always have been - he’s been one since he was a child, toddling at his father’s heel as he robbed banks, scooping him up and flinging him on the back of his horse. You’ve grown up with the gang, had an outlaw of a father though he’d only ever been a petty thing, don’t know anything else - and outlaws only ever know to be rough as they are in their daily things.

Last night, though. You’d gone soft beneath him, kissed and licked and he’d done the same, nibbled and kissed long and slow, murmured love words against your skin. Tilted your head back, moaned awful pretty, ran your fingers through his hair and looked at him as though he was something.

He remembers how you’d looked up at him, clasped his hands in yours, and feels bile rise in his throat.

  
  


Micah’d only ever gotten with you to rub Morgan wrong.

No one in the gang dared touch you - you were one of the originals. You were Morgan’s _sister,_ Dutch and Hosea’s _daughter._ It was an unspoken rule that you were to be left alone.

He hadn’t even wanted you until Morgan had pulled him aside and made it painfully clear what he’d do to him if he dared lay a finger on you.

So the next night, he set to work slithering his way into your pants.

And then, despite himself, he’d ended up doing it again, and again, and again. Found himself not visiting whores anymore, not making passes at the other women.

At some point, you’d stopped being Morgan’s Sister, and you’d started being _you._

Then you’d gone soft beneath him, sweet and gentle and suddenly you were _his girl_ and—

—he looks at you, open and trusting, and his blood curdles.

  
  


He could put a knife in you.

He knows you keep a knife beneath your pillow, and of course you know it, too. You’re curled up, one leg hooked over his hip, completely defenseless. Even if you were to wake up, you’d never be able to unfold in time to defend yourself. You’d seen him stretch out, seen his hand near your pillow, an inch or so from the handle, and still cuddled up to him and fallen asleep.

Trusted him.

He thinks of his camp up in Monto’s Rest.

Of the bounty posters, shoved haphazardly to the bottom of his chest the last time you’d come flying in, throwing him down on the bed. Of Van Der Linde’s and Matthews’ and Morgan’s faces in ink, their massive bounties bold on aged paper. Of _your_ face, your four-digit bounty that had called to him like a siren’s song sitting in his stomach heavy as a river stone.

He thinks of the Pinkertons getting their hands on you. Of you bound, of you looking up at him in betrayal, of your body at the end of a noose. Of those eyes that had looked up at him last night, dazed and love-struck, looking at him as if he were _someone,_ obscured behind a gallows blindfold.

Thinks of talking with Colm, of meetings with Milton and Ross. Of promises of amnesty, of a new start. Thinks of set ups and loose tongues, of fresh graves and corpses left to rot or be displayed, no time to be gathered.

Imagines you, limp at his feet, eyes dull and accusing.

Buries his face in your hair, finds it oddly wet, feels his breath catch and bile rise in his throat.


End file.
